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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725750">Tonic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated'>eloquated</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical, Physical Disability, Seizures</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:23:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mr. Holmes, this is Dr. Kleinmann from St. Thomas' Hospital.  I'm calling regarding your brother..."</p><p>There were few things in the world that truly scared Sherlock Holmes, and most of them were abstract.  Borderline impossible.  But this was the call that part of him had been fearing for years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tonic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tonic<br/>1. giving a feeling of vigor or well-being; invigorating. a curative.</p><p>tonic-clonic<br/>1. a seizure involve both tonic (stiffening) and clonic (twitching or jerking) phases of muscle activity.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Mr. Holmes, this is Dr. Kleinmann from St. Thomas' Hospital.  I'm calling regarding your brother..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were few things in the world that truly scared Sherlock Holmes, and most of them were abstract.  Borderline impossible-- or at the very least, improbable.  But there was something about the cool, crisp tones of the doctor's voice on the other end of the line that made something twist, sick like fear, in his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like foreboding, a cold, solid mass in his guts that refused to shift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened?"  His voice sounded different in his own ears, clipped and tight enough that he saw John look up in surprise from his morning paper.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a faint sigh from the doctor, almost inaudible against the background noise of wherever he was calling from.  Probably the corridor outside Mycroft's room, he supposed.  It was a fringe benefit of working for the government, even doctors jumped a little higher when you snapped your fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock was grabbing his coat even before the reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He seems to have taken a fall, we're still trying to identify the underlying cause.  We had hoped-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ask him yourself.  I'm not his errand boy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mr. Holmes..."  The doctor had the good sense not to sound too openly critical, though Sherlock could deduce every disapproving note.  "Your brother was found in his office by his aide.  We don't believe he was there long, but he's only partially responsive at the moment.  Do you know if your brother has a history of--"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No.  No.  No.  This isn't happening.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm on my way, you can explain it to me fully when I arrive. In the meanwhile, I expect you to run every possibly useful test your limited mind can think of.  And then I want you to run them again, just to be certain of the results.  You are going to look for every horse, every zebra, and every bloody unicorn, do you understand?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sherlock, what's going on?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was only half aware of John following him with that quick march that tried to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were few things that scared Sherlock, with that deep, little boy panic that had never really left.  He'd pushed it down, and down, and down, but his best efforts had been mostly in vain.  It had refused to die.  And with a few words, Dr. Kleinmann had given it new life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My brother's had some incident, and his doctor wishes to speak to me.  I should have thought that much was abundantly clear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I got that.  But why're they calling you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock spared him a withering glance, still stalking down the street, "Because I'm his next of kin, quite obviously.  Be quiet if you're only going to ask stupid questions."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He named </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- why?  You never get along.  You're always fighting, and--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was supposed to be better by now, Mycroft was supposed to be alright.  It had been years and...  Sherlock's heart felt locked in his chest, suspended behind his ribs in a sort of hateful waiting.  There was nothing to do but wait until he got to the hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock grit his teeth, tuned out his flatmate, and flagged down a cab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>❖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John Watson had been a doctor, or becoming a doctor, for most of his adult life.  He knew the scent of antiseptic as comfortably as an old friend, and the long, sterile corridors of hospitals were familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was a battle field doctor, he specialized in patching people up, and keeping them alive.  Later, he'd transitioned into family medicine, with a never-ending supply of grouchy parents and runny noses and earaches.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in the whole of his career, John had never found much need to visit Neurology.  Much less the Neurology department of the best hospital in the country.  It was an intimidating affair, far from the main entrance in a wing of its own.  The air felt still here, like the whole ward was silently waiting for something to break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On balance, John preferred the ER.  At least then there was something happening, something to get your hands into.  Something you could stitch, and bandage, and treat.  It was terrible to loose a patient, bleeding out over your hands-- but it was better than the poor souls he saw behind some of the sliding glass doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't have to ask which ones were coma patients, they had a stillness to them.  One foot in the grave.  And he and Mycroft had never really seen eye-to-eye, but John found himself hoping he wouldn't be like that when they got to his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What sort of an incident happened to the head of the British Government?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sherlock, is that you?  Goodness, it is!  Not that I'm surprised, mind-- I just haven't seen you in ages."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John blinked in surprise as a nurse in bright green scrubs ducked around the side of the long desk that dominated one wall, and pulled his prickly roommate into a hug.  She didn't look like much, the frogs on her scrub top were more interesting than her uncomplicatedly well-meaning smile.  Dark blonde hair, average build, slightly round face, difficult to guess her age, but he supposed somewhere in her early thirties.  All completely average.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when Sherlock hugged her back, his arms loose but still undeniably a hug, John had to wonder if he needed to check himself in as well.  There were rules in the world, and one of them-- in fact, a primary rule, like gravity and the turning of the Earth, was that Sherlock didn't hug people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for his Mummy, and that was only because she didn't give him a choice in the matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sarah, do you know which room they have Mycroft in?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No yelling.  Not even a demand.  What was happening here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sarah, apparently the nurses' name, nodded, her hand light and steadying on Sherlock's sleeve as she lead them down the hallway.  "The paramedics brought him in about an hour ago, and he's been drifting in and out of sleep.  He's got a nasty gash where he must have hit his head, but that looks like the only injury, and they've already stitched it up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John trailed behind as Sherlock nodded, and nodded, his eyes fixed on Sarah's face as he filed all that information into the infinite computer of his mind.  He didn't have laser-pointed Holmes perception, but he could see the subtle loosening of his shoulders under his coat, and the way Sarah's fingers tightened reassuringly on his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're going to take good care of him, Sherlock.  You know what Mycroft's like; he'll wake up, and be a grump because he has a headache.  And he'll refuse painkillers because they make him foggy.  He'll argue with the doctor-- who will think he's going to win, until he realizes that Mycroft's talked him into a corner.  And he'll check himself out early, against doctor's orders, and be back to running the world by the end of the week."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded again, but his hands were restless at his sides, plucking at the edges of his Belstaff coat.  "It wasn't supposed to happen, he was supposed to be passed this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stopped outside Mycroft's room, and for a moment, John almost didn't recognize the diminished figure in the narrow hospital bed.  His auburn hair was covered in white gauze, and his head was haloed by the long, trailing wires of the electroencephalogram.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked strangely small, pale, with those delicate hands folded loosely on his stomach.  Obviously a nurse had positioned him that way, all the better to keep him from tangling in the IV lines, but it looked unnatural.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Privately John thought it made him look like a corpse, but he didn't voice that to Sherlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever this was, and John had a few professional theories, it was clear that they'd been through this before.  And from the doorway, he watched Sherlock make his way over to his brother's bedside, his face drawn and tight to hide the fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know our agreement, Mycroft.  If you don't wake up soon, I'm going to have to call Mummy.  So wake up.  You have to wake up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>❖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you remember the first time we were here, Mycie?  I was still little enough to climb into bed with you.  And Mummy said it was the only way to keep me from getting into trouble.  I sat here for hours, trying to take care of you."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock's voice was pitched quiet and low, because logically he knew he was talking to himself.  Mycroft had woken a few times in the last several hours, just long enough for Sherlock to see the hazy recognition in his eyes, before he slipped back into sleep.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like a lifetime ago that he'd gotten the call summoning him to the hospital, and it was a relief that John had offered to pick up his parents at the train station.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was too big to crawl into Mycroft's bed these days, so he sat in the uncomfortable visitor's chair at the side, his brother's hand clasped between both of his own.  "You had a headache that day, and you didn't want to play with me.  I didn't listen, did I?  And then your eyes rolled back in your head, and..."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock stopped, and pressed his lips to his brother's loosely curled fingers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought it was my fault.  As if I have any control over the electrical conductivity of your brain. You've got to stop this, Mycie.  I can't loose you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn't four anymore, and he understood better now what was happening inside his brother's head.  What the medication tried to control, and usually did.  He knew they were lucky, Mycroft's seizures had tapered off in his early twenties, and he hadn't had an incident in nearly a decade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long enough that Sherlock had started to think-- no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>had thought</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- that they'd never have to do this again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a list of things to be grateful for, but until Mycroft was awake and well, Sherlock didn't think they'd be much comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you hit your head, again."  With a glance over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, Sherlock leaned over to kiss the clean, white gauze that covered his brother's forehead.  "You have precious cargo in there, you have to take better care of it.  I might kill my brain cells with drugs, but even I know better than to avoid blunt force trauma."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you wake up now, I'll come stay with you for a few days when you're released.  Instead of making you deal with Mummy and Father.  But only if you wake up now, otherwise I'll move their things into your fussy townhouse myself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft didn't stir, and the monitors pushed against the wall continued their hatefully rhythmic beeping.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn't thought it would work-- it never had before, and he wasn't crazy enough to expect a different outcome, or optimistic enough to hope for a miracle -- but he had to try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>❖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sherlock?  Sherlock?  Where-- Oh there you are!"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock heard his mother's voice echoing down the corridor, louder than anything else in the ward, long before she turned the corner into Mycroft's room.  "Once more into the fray.  The things I do for you..."  He muttered under his breath, and spared a wry quirk of his mouth for his mostly asleep brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Mummy.  Father."  He made sure Mycroft's hands were neatly folded on his stomach again before his parents came in view; even now, with his brother in hospital, still covered in wires and tubes, they had appearances to maintain.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Secrets to keep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And parents that were habitually too perceptive for either of their peace of mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, darling.  What happened?"  In the space of a heartbeat, the air in the room changed.  Sherlock was never quite sure how their mother managed it, like all the oxygen had been pushed aside to make way for her bustling and fussing, adjusting blankets and the pillow behind Mycroft's head.  She heaved a sigh, taking in the heart monitor and the electroencephalogram, and generally looking at Mycroft like he was a child again, instead of a forty-two-year-old man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I believe Mycroft had a series of abnormal electrical signals in his brain, which disrupted his usually annoying, but normal, electrical function"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark expression on Mummy's face made it very clear that she wasn't amused, or in any mood for jokes.  "I'm quite aware of what a seizure is, young man.  Do you really think this is any time for humour when your brother is in hospital?"  She snapped, back straightening, and Sherlock was once again reminded that it was possible for his mother to make him feel about seven with no effort at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then you know as much as I do.  He was found in his office, and brought here."  Sherlock crossed his arms, and he knew it was sulky, but if he was going to be treated like a child, he might as well act like one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft groaned, low and quiet in the back of his throat, and with an aching effort of will he opened his eyes to face his family.  "I'm quite alright," He lied transparently, "There's no reason to subject him to the Inquisition.  Hello Mummy, Father."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank goodness!  Oh, Myc, you gave us quite the scare!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock caught his brother's eye over his mother's shoulder as she dove in to hug her eldest son.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you alright?  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft's silent gaze asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should be asking you that.  I'm not the one who's currently on a brain monitor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'll be fine.  Are you alright?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>❖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One cup of tea for the recovering invalid."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm hardly an invalid, Sherlock.  Should I be worried about what you've put in my tea apart from sugar?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft's bedroom was the most comfortable place in his entire Knightsbridge townhouse.  Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that it was the only room he used with any degree of frequency.  It was a place to hang his suits, and to occasionally collapse into his very fine bed when he could be dragged away from his office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, there was a country to run, and most of the world didn't function on British time, so there was always something happening.  Something demanding his attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One time, Mycroft, it was one time.  And you don't let me keep bits of cadavers in your fridge anymore.  Also, there's milk in it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I don't relish bags of eyeballs looking at me from behind the orange juice.  Or fingers in the butter dish."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving with a decadent, marshmallow softness, and made a show of rolling his eyes, "You're being dramatic, it was only one finger."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One desiccated finger.  You know, brother mine, I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And the minute I turn my back, you're going to be sneaking out to work.  No.  The neurologist said you have to rest.  The country won't fall because Mycroft Holmes takes a few days to recover from a brain injury."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was a seizure, Sherlock.  You make it sound like I was beaten about by the head with a cudgel."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"More like the edge of your desk.  And it was a tonic-clonic seizure, which you haven't had in nearly a decade.  So until I deduce the cause of it? You're staying in bed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All the more reason to assume this was an anomalous event.  You know perfectly well that even an effective medication regime won't cure my epilepsy.  Just control it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a decisive click of china on wood, Sherlock draped himself along the side of his brother's body, drinking in the living warmth radiating from him.  "That doesn't mean I'm going to let you out of bed."  He stated, stubborn as he'd been as a child, and declared himself Mycroft's guardian and chief caretaker.  "But I'll be very generous and keep you company.  As long as you aren't exerting yourself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft coughed a laugh, still a little dry in his throat, and reached up with his free hand to loosely card his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, and draw him down into a long overdue kiss.  "I suppose that means you're staying tonight?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiled against his mouth, "I'm staying until I'm convinced you're better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That could be quite a long time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We'll make it work."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>❖</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mycie wake up!  I don't like this game, wake up, wake up!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sherlock he's going to be fine, but you have to let the paramedics do their jobs, go sit with Mummy."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to cry.  Not when the ambulance door closed, and not when they were standing in the squished little room with the spiky, Christmas tree monitor.  Not going to cry, not going to cry, because he was four and he was too big to cry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Mrs. Holmes, I have some difficult news."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid doctors didn't know anything.  They said Mycie needed to sleep, and he wasn't going to rest if Sherlock didn't stay with him.  His dumb teachers gave him too much work, too much homework, and he was going to get up and go to his desk, so Sherlock had to stay with him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"It's alright, Lockie... It's ok..."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright, Lockie, wake up, dearest, it's just a nightmare."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, the shadow of Mycroft's child voice blurred into the sleep-roughened timbre of his deeper adult one, the secure weight of his arms bridging the gap between Sherlock's nightmare and reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a start, Sherlock jolted half upright, throat tight and half aware of the miserably congested feeling in his nose.  It was too dark to see much of anything, just the vague black-on-black outline of his brother beside him, all blurry until he scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright now, it was just a dream.  You're perfectly safe here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock's stomach roiled sickly, but with a few deep breaths he sank back down, though his heart still felt wedged sideways at the base of his throat.  "I should have outgrown this."  He muttered, more to himself than to Mycroft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Being afraid?"  He sounded vaguely amused by the idea, and Sherlock wanted to snap back at him, but he let himself be drawn into Mycroft's arms instead.  Cuddled to his chest, and the blankets snuggled securely up around him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Textbook unfairness.  Mycroft was the one with the faulty transport, and he was still trying to comfort him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Precisely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not how it works, Lock.  Age supplies us context, and more things to fear, not the reverse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well it should be."  Sherlock knew he sounded sulky, raw.  It felt like all his fears had been dragged to the surface, and he was kicking and screaming against them.  Mycroft was here, yes, but he had stitches, and if he'd been any closer to his desk...?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what if he seized again? What would happen then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if he was home alone, or what if Anthea wasn't in the office that day? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock bit his tongue and tried to ground himself with the dull ache.  "I can't lose you, I just can't."  And he was more than bright enough to think of a thousand ways this could have ended differently.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed in the darkness, and squeezed his brother just a bit tighter to his chest, "You're not going to.  And you heard the doctor, Lock.  He agreed that one seizure in a decade is more likely an isolated incident than a portent of doom."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ignored Sherlock's sharp look, and the half-hearted jab at his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what if it is?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then we'll speak to the neurologist and discuss our options.  We've weathered this before, and worrying won't do either of us any good.  Quite literally no good at all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded reluctantly, and tucked his head against his brother's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his soap.  It all seemed so viciously unfair!  It always had been, but tonight-- lulled by years without an episode, the wrongness of it all felt cast into high definition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother was brilliant, a genius, an incandescent mind in the world of the terminally dim.  And the same brain that outshone everyone around him, often even Sherlock himself, couldn't fix itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lock, do you remember the seizure I had at school when you were seven?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock closed his eyes and lapsed silent, worrying his lower lip against his teeth.  He remembered, how could he forget? "I do."  He finally admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the way his brother had crumpled onto the lawn, and the way he'd tried to stand in front of him-- too small, too skinny, to stop the other students from seeing the way Mycroft's body twisted and convulsed painfully on the grass, groaning at the back of his throat with that terrible, throttled sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the other student's fear.  And, to a lesser degree, his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the hospital visits, and the pills, and the start of the arms race between Mycroft's medication and his metabolism.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With shame, he remembered his own anger, and the things he'd said to Mycroft over the years.  Things his brother had forgiven him for, and Sherlock couldn't forget.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was angry.  I didn't want them seeing you like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock remembered the way he'd crawled into Mycroft's bed, and his brother had hugged him with clumsy, heavy arms, and promised him that it would be alright.  He'd explained it like an experiment, a mental problem to be solved:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Find the right combination of medications, and identify the triggers, and they could control this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And until today, he'd been mostly right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt the faint huff of Mycroft's amused sigh, half buried in his hair, "You yelled at one of them to get the nurse, didn't you?"  It was more of a prompt than a question, and Sherlock nodded again, rubbing his cheek against the warm side of his brother's neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'd had a few at home, I knew... I did what Mummy had told me to.  Move everything out of the wait, wait for the seizure to stop, and get help."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's all anyone can do, even now.  I promise, dearest, I have no plans of going anywhere.  Which reminds me... What do you want to do for our anniversary?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blatant change of subject; but it was the middle of the night, and more importantly, it was something they could control.  Something that wouldn't give Sherlock more nightmares when he finally fell asleep again.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We never celebrate our anniversary."  He pretended to grump, toying with the buttons of Mycroft's pajama jacket and working them free.  "Why start now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because fifteen years seems like a very long time, and something worth celebrating, wouldn't you say?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A decade and a half of what amounted to 'for better or worse'.  Of bickering in public, and collapsing into Mycroft's bed whenever they could steal a moment together.  Despite himself, Sherlock smiled.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd like that.  We could go somewhere, it's been ages since we had a holiday together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not since France, no."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pulled a face, and gently prodded his brother's chest, before returning to his distractedly slow unbuttoning of his pajamas.  "It isn't a holiday when your office calls you twelve times a day, Mycroft.  This time you can leave your phone at home."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We've both earned the time away."  This time Mycroft did laugh, and Sherlock felt some of the lingering nightmare tension evaporate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock wasn't sure how long they lay there, Mycroft's hand slowly rubbing circles over his back, but somewhere between the reassurance and dawn, he fell asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, everything would turn back to normal.  And maybe that was alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were few things in the world that scared Sherlock more than the idea of losing his brother.  But for now, all he had to do was hold him tighter to know he was safe.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, come pop into the comments for a chat about all things Sherlock and Mycroft (alone, or together!)  ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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